LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2348, 12 October 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

SATED BY A MIR LGE. (Concluded.) ‘lt’s a sign that a few of the train men are still alive, and selling their lives dearly. Do year prettiest now, boys, for we re on ths home stretch. And wl'h every steea ur;,ed to the utmost, the excited party swept on. * * * * * * * Is there any hope, papa?’ Maior Glyndon stopped his quick, hurried tread at this faltering question, pushed back the soft waves of golden-brown hair from the pearl fair, baby-face of his daughter, and, smiling faintly down into the fear-haunted eyes, said, calmly. ‘ While there is life there is always hope, Eflie, dear. Don’t be frightened, girlie, but keep up good courage. < I try to ; but, papa, I t.ink that the man ■who stared at me so in Denver is among those awful Indians. Look, papa ! _ That one cn that dun-colored horse,’ said the yourg girl, with a shiver of fright, as she loan-d slightly from the waggon. Black Bill ! Why had he not recognized the gigantic renegade before f An involuntary exclamation broke from Maj or Glyndon’s lips : * Woe unto you, my darling, if you fall into his bands ! But yon never shall fall into them, Eflie. Bo be of good cheer, little woman, and in the meantime ask God to take care of us all.’ . With these encouraging words Major Glyndon hastened to his post. How could he tell hia flower-like daughter of the desperate situation of the train ? The ammunition was giving out. but a few of the trainmen were uninjured, the Indians were circling nearer and nearer, and on every face was a look of despair. The major heard the prayers of women as ha hurried past the waggons, but only a * Pnr doom Is sealed, captain,’ said a wounded man, desperately, 1 but I’ll shoot my last shot. God take care: of my wife and the boy.’ Hark I what was that? Only a borderman’s jubilant yell; but until the music of heaven sounds in their ears they will not hear a sweeter melody. Forgetting caution, every man rushed to see from whence the thrice welcome sound came. And it was a sight to make even an old man’s blood leap In his veins ! Every rifle spouting fire, every horse seeming to spurn to touch the ground, eveiy man shouting and cheering. On they came like a tornado, and, without checking the speed of their horses, they made a reckless charge. Like withered leaves before the blast, the red braves scattered, and then the victors crowded into the corral. Major Glyndon wrung the hand of Captain Ben silently, and then hurried to tell the glad news to his child. He looked into his waggon, and then the next Instant a great cry startled every one. * Lost, lost I Oh, my God 1 whore is my child?’ •Look, major!’said the old. quick-eyed scout, pointing eastward. * D’ye s’pose he’s got her ?’ One look at the dun horse, its gigantic rider, and tho major staggered, back, clutchIng the air, faintly articulating ‘ Black Bill has stolen her—my little Fffie 1’ A horse’s hoofs thundered by the corral. ‘ Sob Kingsley on a strange horse !’ exclaimed the old guide. ‘ Who does that black stallion belong to ?’ *To me, ’ said one of tho train men, qnledy ; ‘and if I do say it, ‘ Racer’ is the best bore this side o’ the Rockys, not excepting the dun-horse yonder.’ With bated breath and staring eyes that gazed upon the race, that seemed endless But the black stallion gained steadily on the dun. Nearer and nearer together they drew ; shorter and shorter grew the distance between them ; and now they are within bullet-range. Shifting the reins into the hand which clasped his fainting burden to hia breast, the renegade half-turned in hli saddle and fired at tho centaur-like Nemesis so surely over taking him. Down dropped Kingsley, flat on the stallion’s ebon neck, and the ballet whistled harmlessly past; then his rifle sent its ringing answer to the renegade’s challenge, and the dan horse staggered and fell, throwing its burden violently. But the renegade never r >ae, while the winner in his reckless ride flung himself from bis hor<>e, snatched up a white-robed figure, mounted again, and was dashing away toward the corral.

With a very natural Impulse, the young protector's eyes sought the face lying so quietly against his breast, and saw a bonny, baby-face, with long rilken lashes, that swept the stilly, pearl-face cheek, and exactly matched in co'or the waves of bronze tinted hair thit clustered about the low, pale forehead A breath quivered through the delicate lips; the eyelids flattered tremulously and lifted. Alas for the heart of the bold young rider 1 The first glance from those upraised, startled eyes enslaved it as surely as if fay Vivian’s chain had wound it three times about.

Half the distance from the corral Kingsley met her father, and placed Kffia Glyndon In his arms. Gutting short the words of joy and gratitude that fell from the major’s trembling lips, Kingsley said, earnestly—‘Believe me, major, that I would cheerfully lay down my life in order to save your daughter from so terrible a fate as becoming that renegade’s captive.’ A short time later, when all signs cf the late conflict had been removed, and the wounded men taken care of, Major Glyndon hastened to tho old guide, and said earnestly—- ‘ Captain Ben, God must have sent you to our rescue, for wo were at our last gasp, lion were just in time to save us.’ ‘Well,’ said the old soout, reverently, ‘ wa were coming this way ; but we wouldn't have been in time, if we hadn’t received a message that was as full of warning as one that was written oa a wall for old Belshazzar.’ ‘What was it?’ said the train-men, woaderingly. Thereupon the old guide told of the mistlike scene on the alkaline desert, that had been so potent in saving the train. At the conolnsion, Major Glyndon raised h!a cap reverently, and said, with emotion : ‘ God’s hand was through It all, sending that wonderfol mirage that told you of our desperate need.’ And, in the years that followed, he would relate over and over again, to his grandchildren clustered aronnd him, about a waggon train—in which were beautiful Mamma, Kingsley and himself—that was saved from the Indians by a mirage.

THE PET OP THE DKILLKKS. A .SKETCH Of LIKE IN THE OIL COUNTRY, [From a Special Correspondent of the “ Phlla, Times,” at Bradford, Pa ] ‘ Yon'll excuse me, sir, bat you see we’re all unstrung to-day, and sort of wandering about aimless-like. The boys haven’t the heart to woik, and the drilling tools are standing idle in tho derrick. My wife, dear heart, is near crazy with grief, and does take on awful. You see, sir. Baby is dead !’ ‘Baby?’ ‘ Yes, the little girl She wasn’t our child, but we loved her just the same. She wasn’t a baby, though you might think so from the name. She was seven or eight years old, but the name “ Baby ” came to us with her when her mother died.’ The old driller brushed awsy a tear with the sleeve of hia blue flannel shirt, and turned a sorrowing face towards a clump of pine trees away out in tho McEean county oil fields, at the front of the line of development. A rough hemlock board home peered through the trees, and cast a long shadow down the broad aisle made by the sombre pines, and around and over the unpaintod door vines and flowers ware hanging in profusion, the one redeeming feature of the homely house and Its lonely surroundings. I had asked the old man for the privilege of taking supper with him at the house, and had, at hia request, dismounted and tied my horse to a young pine preparatory to resnma long ride back to Bradford. ‘ 1 don’t know what kind of a supper the old lady will have ; not very good, perhaps, but you are welcome to what there is. Everything seems turned upside down to-day. But come along, sir, I see she is -waving her sun bonnet at me.’

With hesitating step the old man led the way over the threshold of his forest home. His wife greeted me quietly and kindly, while three or four drillers and tool dressers seated about the room acknowledged the stranger’s visit with careless nods, and then resumed their conversation as though nothing had happened. The meal was a solemn one, and during it I loaded the history of Baby, and why they loved her as their own, baby's history. A yosr h fore, a woman had moved to Bradford from the lower oil country with her little girl, and had essayed the struggle for existence with such employment as her hands, wasted by poverty and sickness, could find to do. It was a bitter struggle, a fight between life and death, with fearful odds in favor of death. Life was sweet to her, not for herself alone, but for her little girl, who, if death should mercifully heal the mother’s broken spirit, would be cast upon the world of strangers, to drift, God alone knows where. The woman was proud, and would not ask assistance, for she had once been wealthy and a leader in refined, cn'tured society. Her husband was dead, or something worse—at least he was dead to her and Baby ? What matters it either way ? But the end came one day, and poor little Baby awoke one morning to kiss lips which answered nut back again, and to nestle in arms that would never more be stretched forth in protection and guidance for the little baby feet. The little girl we t out and sat on the door-step, and cried as if her heart would break, and presently the old driller came along, and, touched by the little waif’s sorrow, took her in his strong arms, and asked the cause ef her trouble.

‘Mamma la in there,’ sobbed the little one,‘and she w'on’t apeak, and her face Is oh I so cold.’

The tired hands were folded peacefully across the stilled heart, and all that was earthly of the poor, patient, struggling mother was lowered tenderly away from the sight of the little orphan for ever. Baby found loving friends in the old driller and his wife, who, loving children, had never been blessed themselves. The little one was a joy and a beam of sunshine to tho old people, while to the drillers and roughlyclad followers of oil she was a wilful, capricious pet, ruling over the great-hearted men with soeptered power. Every one loved her, and gladly submitted to her loving rule. And now that she was dead, and lying so cold, and still, and silent. In the homo she had brightened and mado joyous, the loving hearts to whom she had been all In all, were stricken In helpless misery. Saddened by the pathetic story, I stood by tho bed of death and looked down into a face from which had faded tears, and fears, and earthly pleasures, wearing a smile as if in pleasant dreamland, about to awake a to call of birds and breath of flowers. And the soft summer wind, laden with the perfume of the sighing pines, came in through open doors and windows and Kissed the dead child’s cheeks and blew the wavy brown hair about the smooth white brow in careless freedom. With a mute grasp of the old driller’s hand, I rode away, down the aisle of sombre pines and over a long, lonely highway to Bradford, pondering over the tenderness and kindness of a grizzled, gray-haired follower of the evershifting scenes of oil. A tacjrant’s VIOLIK. Late at night, in company with a friend, I sat in the waiting-room of one of Bradford’s large hotels, discussing the latest Warren county strike. The door opened slowly, and a disreputable-looking vagrant elided into tho room, holding by the neck a dirty violin. Propping himself against the wall, and at tho same time eyeing the sleeping hotel clerk, ho made preparations to play.

‘ Let us get out of this I don’t want to be tortured with an infliction cn the sacred name of music,’ said my friend, as he moved toward the door. * It’s some wandering ‘ bum ’ playing for f he drinks.’ Mechanically drawing him to his seat, I waited for the music, mentally defying the fiend to do his worst, The bow tonched the strings softly and drew forth a burst of melody such as one rarely hears outside the great music halls of the world. Oh, such a flood of music, mellow and soft and beautiful; so fall of pathos and sorrow. One might well believe that the poor tatterdemalion, the wreck of better days, was pouring forth bis very soul in the memory of what might have been. When the last strain of the melody had floated out Into the night, we beckoned him to a seat, and drew from him his story. He was born and reared a gentleman—any one conid tell that from the manner In which he took hia seat and listened to our questions • Why don't I play in concert halls ?’ he interrogatively answered. ‘ Why can't I make a name In the world as well P Because, curse it, drink has me In his power with the grasp of a thousand fiends. I wasn’t always like this. It was ages ago, it seems to me, but only a few years in reality, that I had a wife, a child, a home and a fortune. The fortune was left me by a dying mother, and I determined to move my family to the oil country and go into business, in hopes of increasing my already oomfortable store Like all men who live in the oil country I tried my hand at speculating on the market. If you know what it is to lose a fortune at one fell swoop, then you know how I frit. Great God, what agony! Then I took to drink and became a worthless wretch. It was an awful fall. Those who were -up the highest always fall the lowest, and it seemed as though I never should land anywhere this side the great lake of fire. In one of my saner moments I took my violin and drifted out into the world, determiced not to drag down my wife and little girl. Since boyhood I had been a performer on the violin, and when I arrived at manhood 1 was an accomplished musician. I have been wandering ever since, without home and friends. Merciful h a ena ! whe'e will it end !' And in a voice tremulous with emotion from thoughts of the happy past ho leaned back with his violin and sang softly— Only a poor old wanderer, No place to call my home ; No one to pity me, no one to cheer me, As friendless and sadly I roam.

The melody of the piece was full of touching pathos and as he ceased singing he shook with suppressed sobs. * I have come back to the oil country to take one look at my family before drifting Into oblivion. ’ he said slowly; ‘but I find my wife Is—la—dead and my little girl in the family of a driller out at the front. God pity the little one and guide her footsteps, for I cannot. What a father I am! But she (hall not see me. 1 will just look In at the window and see her, and then go away. I am powerless to do anything for her, for I cannot do anything for myself. I am going up to see her in the morning. I love her just as dearly now as I ever did, the beautiful little blossom. Oh, what a world, what a world! Stranger, don’t speculate in oil. And if yon loose, be manly enough to keep from the accursed stuff that has killed my wife, ruined me, and will make my child’s pathway through life a way of thorns. Don’t do it; don’t. But good-night. I tire you with my ravings. Yes, I will go up to the old driller’s house in the morning and take a last look at my little girl. ’ A last look! Yes, the very last, for brown-haired B»by was hia own child. I couldn’t tell him the bitter truth. It was cruel, perhaps, to let him go on In hope, but I couldn’t tell him hia only gloam of hope in life was all ready to be laid away under the pine trees and the wild flowers in the lonely forest. To take a last look ? Heaven help the unfortunate wretah.